MRS. THOMPSON

I

It was early-closing day in the town of Mallingbridge; and the

Thompson's, "established 1813," had begun to hide its wares from the

sunlight of High Street. Outside its windows the iron shutters were

rolling down; inside its doors male and female assistants, eager for the

weekly half-holiday, were despatching the last dilatory customers,

packing their shelves, spreading their dust-sheets, and generally

tidying up with anxious speed.

Mrs. Thompson, the sole proprietress, emerging from internal offices and

passing through her prosperous realm, cast an attentive eye hither and

thither; and, wherever she glanced, saw all things right, and nothing

wrong. System, method, practised control visible in each department.

Carpets, Bedding, Curtains, House Furnishings, all as they should be--no

disturbing note, no hint of a dangerous element in the well-ordered

working scheme of Thompson's.

Managerial Mr. Mears, a big elderly man, took his hands from beneath the

skirts of his frock-coat; smiled and bowed; and spoke to the

proprietress confidentially on one or two important matters.

"By the way," said Mr. Mears. "About Household Crockery--is it to be a

promotion, or do you still think of getting someone in? Of course

there's a lot of talk--must be while the appointment remains open. But

you haven't made up your mind yet, have you?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Thompson, arranging her reticule, and not looking

at Mr. Mears. "I shall appoint Mr. Marsden."

"Young Marsden? Never!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Thompson firmly.

"You surprise me. I admit it."

"You don't think," said Mrs. Thompson, "that he is old enough for the

responsibility. But, Mr. Mears, he has _brains_ and he likes _work_.

Tell the others that the appointment is made."

And big Mr. Mears did then what everyone in Thompson's always did--that

is to say, he immediately obeyed orders; and before the last shutter was

down, the news had flashed all through the restricted space of the

old-fashioned shop.

"Dicky Marsden! Oh, drop me off a roof.... Marsden up again! Well, I'm

bust!" Thompson's young gentlemen murmuring their comments, expressed

astonishment, and a certain amount of envy. "Marsden over all our heads!

This is a rum go, if you like."

"Fancy! What next! Would you believe it?" Thompson's young ladies, after

being breathless, became shrill. "Why, on'y six months ago he was Number

Three in the Carpets."

"He'll be prouder than ever."

"I shan't dare so much as speak to him."

"He always treated one as dirt under his feet," said a dark-haired,

anaemic young lady. "And _now_!"

"With the increased screw," said a pert, blond young lady, "he'll be

able to buy more smart clothes, and he'll look more fetching than ever.

Yes, and you'll all be more in love with him than you are a'ready."

"Speak for yourself."

"Well, say I'm as bad as you. We're all a lot of fools together."

Of course there must be talk. The Napoleonic rise of this fortunate

shopman had been sufficiently rapid to stir the whole of his little

shop-world. Starting thus, to what heights might he not attain in

Thompson's? There would be talk and more talk.

But not within the hearing of Mr. Mears.

"Jabber, jabber," said Mr. Mears with unusual severity. "Less of it.

You're like so many cackling hens in some back yard--instead of ladies

who know how to behave themselves in a high-class emporium."

Evidently Mr. Mears was not pleased with the appointment. He stamped

off; and the girls observed the characteristic swish of the coat tails,

the manner in which he puffed out his chest, and the faint flush upon

his bearded face.

Meanwhile Mrs. Thompson had passed onward and upward, through many

departments, to the door of communication on the first floor that led

from her public shop to her private house.

Outwardly it was quite an old-fashioned shop, still encased with the

red-brick fabric of Georgian days; but inwardly its structure had been

almost entirely modernised. The bird-cage art of steel-girdering had

swept away division-walls, opened out the department to the widest

possible extent and given an unimpeded run of floor area where once the

goods used to be stored in rooms the size of pigeon-holes. The best

shop-architects had gutted the place, and, so far as they were

permitted, had "brought it up to date"; but in all recent improvements

the style of substantial, respectable grandeur was preserved. The new

mahogany staircases were of a Georgian pattern; there were no fantastic

white panellings, no coloured mosaics, no etageres of artificial

flowers. Really the vast looking-glasses were the only decoration that

one could condemn as altogether belonging to the vulgar new school. The

mirrors were perhaps overdone.

So, as Mrs. Thompson ascended the short flight of stairs out of Bedding,

Etc., a pleasant, middle-aged woman in stately black with pendent

chatelaine, climbed opposing steps to meet her face to face on the

landing. As she moved on she was moving in many glasses, so that nearly

all the assistants could see her or her reflected image: a procession of

Mrs. Thompsons advancing from Woollens and Yarns, another converging

column of Mrs. Thompsons from Cretonnes and Chintzes, reinforcements

coming forward in the big glass opposite the entrance of Household

Linen; while the young men behind the Blankets counter raised their eyes

to watch the real Mrs. Thompson march by with a company of false Mrs.

Thompsons stretching in perfect line from the right--innumerable Mrs.

Thompsons shown by the glasses; some looking bigger, some looking

slighter; but all the glasses showing a large-bosomed, broad-hipped

woman of forty-five, with florid colouring and robust deportment; a

valiant solid creature seeming, as indeed she was, well able to carry

the burden of the whole shop on her firm shoulders.

Then the glasses were empty again: Mrs. Thompson had disappeared through

the door of communication.

On this side of the door lay all her working life, the struggle, the

fight, the courageous plans, and the unflagging labours; on the other

side of the door lay the object for which she had toiled, the end and

aim of every brave endeavour.

"Enid, my darling, are you there?... Yates, is Miss Enid in?"

"Yes, ma'am, Miss Enid has lunched, and is upstairs--dressing for the

drive."

Yates, the old servant, maid, housekeeper, and faithful friend, came

bustling and smiling to the welcome sounds of her employer's kind voice.

Mrs. Thompson sat for a few minutes in the vacated dining-room, talking

to Yates and hearing the domestic news.

The headache of Miss Enid, Yates reported, was much better; but she had

not been out this morning. She seemed to be rather languid, and, as

Yates guessed, perhaps felt a little dull and moped after the gaieties

and excitements of the country-house visit from which she had just

returned.

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Thompson cheerfully, "our drive will do her good.

And now that the summer is coming on, she shall not want for occupation

and amusement."

All through the snug little box of a house, filched out of the block of

shop premises, there was evidence of the occupations and amusements of

Miss Enid. Bookcases with choicely bound volumes of romance and poetry,

elegant writing-desks, various musical instruments, materials for

painting in oil or water colour, new inventions for the practice of

miniature sculpture, the most costly photographic cameras, tennis

rackets, hockey sticks, and other implements of sport and pastime--on

this floor as on the upper floors, in dining-room, drawing-room,

boudoir, as well as bedroom and dressing-room, were things that should

provide a young lady with occupation and amusement.

The rooms were comfortably furnished and brightly ornamented, and all

had a homelike soothing aspect to their busy owner. To other people they

might seem lacking in the studious taste by which the rich and idle can

make of each apartment a harmonious picture. Here money had been spent

profusely but hurriedly, at odd times and not all together: whatever at

the moment had appeared to be desirable or necessary had been at once

procured. So that comfort and luxury rather jostled each other; the

Sheraton cabinets which were so charming to look at were apt to get

hidden by the leather armchairs which were so soothing to have a nap in;

and the Chelsea china in the glass-fronted corner cupboard completely

lost itself behind the Japanese screen that guarded against draughts

from the old sashed window.

"Enid, may I come in?" Mrs. Thompson tapped softly at the door of her

daughter's dressing-room.

"Mother dear, is that you?" The door was opened, and the two women

embraced affectionately.

Miss Thompson, in her fawn-coloured coat and skirt, feathered hat and

spotted veil, was a tall, slim, graceful figure, ready now to adorn the

hired landau from Mr. Young's livery stables. Her hair was dark and her

complexion naturally pallid; with a long straight nose in a narrow face,

she resembled her dead father, but what was sheep-like and stupid in him

was rather pretty in the girl;--altogether, a decent-looking, fairly

attractive young woman of twenty-two, but not likely to obtain from the

world at large the gaze of admiring satisfaction with which an adoring

mother regarded her.

"The carriage isn't there yet," said Mrs. Thompson, "and I promise not

to keep you waiting. I'll change my dress in a flash of lightning."

"What did you think of wearing this afternoon?"

Mrs. Thompson proposed to put on her new mauve gown and the hat with the

lilac blossoms; but her daughter made alternative suggestions.

In the shop Mrs. Thompson carried a perpetual black; outside the shop

she was perhaps unduly fond of vivid tints, and it was Enid's custom to

check this rainbow tendency.

"Very well," said Mrs. Thompson, "it shall be the brown again;" and she

laughed good-humouredly. "I bow to your judgment, my dear, if I don't

endorse its correctness."

"You look sweet in the brown, mother."

"Do I?... But remember what Miss Macdonald says. With my high

complexion, I _need_ colour."

Yates soon braced and laced her mistress into the sober brown cloth and

velvet that Enid considered suitable for the occasion; a parlourmaid

with light rugs went forward to the carriage; and mother and daughter

came down the steep and narrow flight of stairs to their outer door.

There was no ground floor to the dwelling-house--or rather the ground

floor formed an integral part of the shop. The street door stood in St.

Saviour's Court--the paved footway that leads from High Street to the

churchyard,--sandwiched with its staircase between the two side windows

that contained basket chairs and garden requisites. The court was

sufficiently wide and sufficiently pleasant: a quiet, dignified passage

of entry, with the peaceful calm of the old church walls at one end, and

the stir and bustle of the brilliant High Street at the other end.

Enid and her mamma, following the neat and mincing parlourmaid, made a

stately procession to the main thoroughfare, where the really handsome

equipage provided by Mr. Young was awaiting their pleasure.

The liveried coachman touched his hat, idle loungers touched their caps,

prosperous citizens uncovered and bowed.

"There goes Mrs. Thompson." People ran to upper windows to see Mrs.

Thompson start for her Thursday drive.

"There she goes."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Thompson."

"Oh!"

The genial May sunshine flashed gaily, lighting up the whole street,

making both ladies blink their eyes as the carriage rolled away.

"What a crowd there is outside Bence's," said Miss Enid. "How mean it is

of him not to close!"

The first shop they passed was Bence's drapery stores, and Mrs. Thompson

glanced carelessly at the thronged pavement in front of these improperly

open windows.

"Mr. Bence's motto," said Mrs. Thompson, "is cheap and nasty," and she

laughed with an amused scorn for so mean a trade rival. "His method of

doing business is like the trumpery he offers to the public. I have a

rather impudent letter from him in my pocket now, and I want--"

But then Mrs. Thompson's strong eyebrows contracted, and she shrugged

her shoulders and looked away from Bence's. She had just noticed two of

her own shop-girls going into Bence's to buy his trumpery. Something

distinctly irritating in the thought that these feather-headed girls

regularly carried half their wages across the road to Bence's!

Throughout the length of High Street there were too many of such signs

of the vulgar times: the ever-changing trade, old shops giving place to

new ones--an American boot-shop, a branch of the famous cash

tobacconists, the nasty cheap restaurant opened by the great London

caterers, Parisian jewellery absorbing one window of the historic

clocksmiths,--everywhere indications of that love of tawdriness and

glitter which slowly atrophies the sense of solid worth, of genuineness

and durability.

Yet everywhere, also, signs of the old life of the town still

vigorous--aldermen and councillors taking the air; Mr. Wiseman, the

wealthy corn-merchant; Mr. Dempsey, the auctioneer-mayor; Mr. Young,

owner of a hundred horses besides this pair of gallant greys that were

drawing Mrs. Thompson.

Everyone of the solid old townsfolk knew her; all that was respectably

permanent bowed and smiled at her. The drive was like a royal progress

when they swept through the market square, past the ancient town hall

now a museum, under the shadows thrown by the new municipal buildings,

and the other and bigger church of Holy Trinity, out beneath the noble

gatehouse, and up into the sunlit slope of Hill Street. Hats off on

either side, broad masculine faces smiling in the sunlight. All the best

of the town knew her and was proud of her.

Her story was of the simplest, and all knew it. Mr. Thompson had been

the last and most feeble representative of a powerful dynasty of

shop-keepers; at his death it became at once apparent that the grand old

shop was nothing but an effete, played out, and utterly exhausted

possession; his widow was left practically penniless, with an insolvent

business to wind up, and an orphaned little girl to support and rear.

And young Mrs. Thompson was ignorant of all business matters, knew

nothing more of shops than can be learned by any shop-customer.

Nevertheless, with indomitable energy, she threw herself into business

life. She did not shut up Thompson's; she kept it going. In two years it

was again a paying concern; in a few more years it was a stronger and

more flourishing enterprise than it had ever been since its

establishment in 1813; now it was immensely prosperous and a credit to

the town.

They all knew how she had toiled until the success came, how generously

she had used the money that her own force and courage earned--a

large-minded, open-handed, self-reliant worker, combining a woman's

endurance with a man's strength,--and only one weakness: the pampering

devotion to her girl. She was making her daughter too much of a fine

lady; she had extravagantly worshipped this idol; she had _spoiled_ the

long-nosed Enid. The town knew all about that.

Bowing to right and to left, Mrs. Thompson drove up Hill Street, and

then stopped the carriage outside the offices of Mr. Prentice, solicitor

and commissioner of oaths.

"Only two or three words with him, Enid. I promise not to be more than

five minutes."

Mr. Prentice came to the carriage door; and was asked to read the letter

from Mr. Bence the fancy draper.

"Don't you think it's rather impertinent?"

"Of course I do," said Mr. Prentice. "I wouldn't answer it. Throw it

into the waste-paper basket."

"Oh, no, I shall answer it ... I can't allow Mr. Bence to suppose that I

should ever be afraid of him."

"Afraid of him!" And Mr. Prentice laughed contemptuously. "_You_ afraid

of such a little bounder.... Look here. Shall I go round and kick the

brute?"

Mrs. Thompson laughed, too. "No, no," she said, "that would scarcely be

professional."

"I'll do it after office hours--in my private capacity--and of course

without entering it to your account."

Mr. Prentice was a jolly red-faced man of fifty, with healthy

clean-shaven cheeks, and small grey whiskers of a sporting cut.

Altogether the most eminent solicitor in Mallingbridge, he had clients

among all the country gentlefolk of the neighbourhood; he rode to hounds

still, and kept his horses at Young's stables; he stood high in the

Masonic craft and could sing an excellent comic song. He was at once

Mrs. Thompson's trusted legal adviser, her staunch friend, and, as he

himself declared, her admiring slave.

"One more word," said Mrs. Thompson. "It is time that I gave another

dinner at the Dolphin. There are two new men on the Council--and there

will be more new men next November. I shall want your help to act as

deputy host for me. Will you think it out--draw up a list of guests--and

arrange everything?"

"It is for you to command, and for me to obey," said genial Mr.

Prentice. "But, upon my word, I don't know why you should go on feasting

people in this way."

"I like to stand well with the town."

"And so you do. So you would, if you never gave them another glass of

champagne.... I think your mamma is far too generous."

But Miss Enid, who seemed unutterably bored, was staring out of the

carriage in the other direction. She had not been listening to Mr.

Prentice, and she did not hear him when he addressed her directly.

"Then good-bye. Drive on, coachman.... There," and Mrs. Thompson turned

gaily to her daughter. "That's more than enough business for Thursday

afternoon, isn't it, Enid?"

They drove along the London road, through the pretty village of

Haggart's Cross, as far as the chalk cliffs beneath the broad downs; and

then, descending again, through beech woods and fir plantations to the

valley where the river Malling runs and twists beside the railway line

all the way home to the town.

The world was fresh and bright, with the May wind blowing softly and the

May flowers budding sweetly. Cattle in the green fields, birds in the

blue sky, pinafored children chanting a lesson behind the latticed panes

of their schoolhouse, primroses peeping from grassy banks, and, far and

near, the white hawthorn shedding its perfume, giving its fragrant

message of spring, of hope, of life--plenty of things to look at with

pleasure, plenty of things to talk about, though one might often have

seen them before.

But Enid was somehow languid, listless, even lumpish, and Mrs. Thompson

did nearly all the looking and talking.

"I always think that is such an imposing place. The entrance seems to

warn one off--to tell one not to forget what a tremendous swell the

owner is."

They were passing the lodge-gates of a great nobleman's seat, and one

had a rapid impression of much magnificence. Stone piers, sculptured

urns, floreated iron, massive chains; and behind the forbidding barrier

a vista of swept gravel and mown grass, with solemn conifers proudly

ranked, and standard rhododendrons just beginning pompously to bloom--no

glimpse of the mansion itself, but an intuitive perception of something

vast, remote, unattainable.

Enid looked through the bars at my lord's gravel drive attentively,

almost wistfully, perhaps thinking of the few and august people to whom

these splendours would be familiar--of the lucky people who are brought

up in palaces instead of in shops.

"It is a meet of hounds." Miss Enid broke a long silence to give her

mother this information. "And when I was staying at Colonel Salter's, I

met a man who had once been to a ball there."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Thompson, with cheerful briskness, "now you

mention hunting, that reminds me. We must get you on horseback again....

You do like your riding, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," said Enid listlessly.

"Mr. Young said you were making such good progress. And," added Mrs.

Thompson gently, "it is a pity to take up things and drop them. It is

just wasted effort--if one stops before reaching the goal."

The road, turning and crossing the railway, gave them a well-known view

of Mallingbridge--the town quite at its best, four miles away in the

middle of the broad plain, smoke and haze hanging over it, but with

tempered sunlight glistening on countless roofs, and the square tower of

St. Saviour's and the tall spire of Holy Trinity rising proudly above

the mass of lesser buildings. There, stretched at her feet, was Mrs.

Thompson's world, the world that she had conquered.

In another mile they passed a residence that to her mind formed a

pleasant contrast with the oppressive splendour of the nobleman's

domain. Here there were white gates between mellow brick walls, easy

peeps into a terraced garden, stables and barns as at a farm, pigeons

settling on some thatch, friendly English trees guarding but not hiding

a dear old English country house.

"Look, Enid," and Mrs. Thompson pointed to the broad eaves, the white

windows, and the solid chimney stacks, as they showed here and there

between the branches of oak and maple. "There. That's a place I fell in

love with the first time I saw it.... I would like a house just like

that--for you and me to live in when I am able to give up my work...."

"What were you saying, mother?" Enid, not listening or absorbed by her

own thoughts, had not heard.

"I was only saying, that's the sort of house I should like for us

two--when I retire."

"Mother, I sometimes wish that you had retired years ago."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thompson meekly, "retiring is all very

well--but you and I wouldn't be sitting here driving so comfortably if I

had been afraid of my work and in a hurry to get done with it."